


One Foot on the Ground

by Cutebutpsycho



Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-12-03 05:10:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/694520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cutebutpsycho/pseuds/Cutebutpsycho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Molly Hooper and Martin Crieff got together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Standard disclaimer: Not mine. I hope that Moffat, Gatiss and Finnemore don't kill me. All errors are mine. I hope you enjoy.

~~~

Molly would later remark, after all the dust had settled, that of course, it all was Sherlock’s fault. If he hadn’t come into her morgue with such frequency, Jim (from IT) Moriarty wouldn’t have posed as a gay man posing as her boyfriend for those few embarrassing weeks.

And of course, with her luck, Jim turned out to be a criminal psychopath who really only had eyes for Sherlock, judging by the fact that he kidnapped John and set up that showdown at the pool that ended with the entire place exploding in pepper spray and laughing gas. Jim always did have a strange sense of humor.

Whatever the case was, Molly ended up having to change her e-mail, abandon her blog (which was a shame, since it took such a long time to set up) and move from her flat to somewhere else. Sherlock and John (along with half of Scotland Yard, her family and random other people she told the tale to) insisted on her moving, saying it wasn’t safe and they were concerned about her.

It was a nice flat -- a bit more airy and a tad more spacious than her previous one and close to her job. Molly suspected that she got a discounted rate on the rent, but didn’t ask about it because she was simply grateful for the change of scene after what happened. The old flat held too much bad mojo in her mind.

The only problem was moving. She couldn’t afford a big moving company -- not that she needed one anyway, given the few items she owned. But she did need someone to help her. Her family was located in Barnstaple and unable to take time off from work. Not to mention Da’s back had gotten quite bad and Molly didn’t even want him looking at a box, much less lifting one. Her friends didn’t own the right kind of vehicles to transport large furniture, so it became apparent that hiring someone would have to be the solution.

After bemoaning the situation to a coworker, he suggested calling a certain Martin Crieff.

“He’s pretty reasonable,” Duncan told Molly. “Nothing fancy. Just a tatty van with plenty of space and a strong back.”

“That would do the trick,” Molly said, accepting the business card from him.

A few e-mails were exchanged back and forth in which Mr. Crieff quoted a very reasonable price and a date was set for the move. Molly busied herself with packing her books, furniture and other items in boxes, before tiring of that and just shoving everything into garbage bags.

The day of the move, Molly was surprised to see who was standing at her door.

“I’m Martin, the mover,” the man said when she opened the door. “You’re Ms. Hooper I take it?”

She could feel the box of pictures slip out of her fingers from surprise. The voice had that sonorous tone similar to Sherlock’s and the man looked like his long-lost twin, except for a few differences. Martin was dressed in a ratty t-shirt, cargo pants and worn trainers. His neatly trimmed hair was a light chestnut color instead of Sherlock’s dark brown mop. He appeared smaller in stature, but Molly wasn’t sure if it was a real height difference or the hesitant way he carried himself. But perhaps the biggest difference was this:

Sherlock would’ve caught the box effortlessly.

Instead, the box crashed to the ground, causing both of them to jump backwards in surprise.

“Sorry! Sorry --” Molly stammered. “You just caught me by surprise, that’s all.”

They both bent down at the same time to retrieve the box, clunking heads together. She could hear him curse under his breath as they both rose, the box in his hands this time.

“Right --” he began, a tentative smile creeping over his face and his ears turning pinkish. “Shall we get started?”

Molly nodded and motioned for Martin to enter her flat.

Even though he was a professional mover and assisting her, the move still took the entire day. It probably didn’t help that Molly wasn’t very effective in lifting some of the heavier objects, which left Martin tugging and pulling furniture down the stairs, with Molly offering meager assistance.

Most of the move was done in silence, with a bit of awkward small talk sprinkled in at times. Martin reminded Molly of a little bit of the Jim she knew -- shy and stammering. She’d be the first to admit that she wasn’t the greatest judge of character (after all she did get close to Jim), but there was a certain sweetness with Martin that was appealing. He also seemed completely nonchalant at how Toby mewed his displeasure at having to ride in the carrier.

It also didn’t help that every now and then, she’d get a tantalizing glimpse of pale, taut flesh under the t-shirt as he lifted and carried boxes and furniture up and down stairs. Mentally she cursed the fact that she was a sweaty, disheveled mess in her ratty pants and old college sweatshirt. Her hair was plastered to her forehead with a patina of sweat and grime and Molly rued the fact that she hadn’t even bothered to shower, because she knew she’d be a mess with the move.

If Molly at her best couldn’t get a man’s attention, then this definitely wasn’t going to score.

Once the last box was placed in the kitchen, Molly heaved a sigh of relief and glanced over at Martin, who was standing in the entryway, looking around the flat with a bit of awe.

“It’s a nice flat,” he said finally, glancing over at her.

Molly nodded. “I think it’s a nice change of scene and it’s closer to my work.”

“What do you do?”

“I work as a morgue attendant at St. Bart’s,” Molly said.

Did he blanch at that? Molly wouldn’t be surprised one bit. Many people were put off with her occupation.

“That’s --” his voice trailed off for a moment as he searched for the right word. “Interesting.”

Molly chuckled. “It’s a job,” she said, wiping a bead of sweat off her forehead. She wandered over to her purse, which was lying on her couch, and produced a checkbook. “Thank you so much for your help,” she said, while writing the check. “I couldn’t have done this by myself.”

“It was no problem,” he replied.

Molly handed him the check and, for a moment, the romantic in her felt an electric connection flow between the two of them. She stared into his eyes, which were wide and startled. The pink flush returned to his features, which made her feel brave in her next words.

“Martin,” Molly said slowly. “I just realized that I haven’t eaten all day and am famished. Would you like to join me in getting some dinner?”

The pink blush deepened to a red.

“I --” he started. “I’d love to, but I have to get home and get ready for my other job. You see, we have to leave early in the morning.”

She nodded, battling the feelings of rejection that took root. This wasn’t the first time she read a man’s expressions wrong. “That’s all right,” she said with a false sweetness. “What’s your other job?”

“I’m an airline captain,” his chest puffed up a bit.

“Really?” she asked, not quite believing him. But then again, she had dealt with many creative rejection lines. “And you move boxes in your spare time?”

“Yes,” he said, a bit too defensively. “I mean, this is just a side job when I’m between flights. You know how the economy is right now -- everyone’s feeling the pinch.”

“Where are you going?”

“Shanghai,” he replied, stuffing the check into his pocket. “We’ve also got some stops planned in Turkey, Greece and Florence.”

Molly bit her lip, battling back the feeling of rejection as he avoided her gaze. On a scale from one to ten, this was an eleven in creativity, she thought.

“Shanghai,” Molly said with a small smile. “I had a friend visit there once. Came back with the most marvelous little trinkets,” her tone because more polite and chirpy. “There was this watch with Chairman Mao on it, and he would wave along with the second hand.”

“Yes --” Martin stammered. “You can find the oddest things --”

“Oh and then there was this lighter,” Molly giggled. “It had this enormous blue flame and would play the Red Easter song.”

Martin’s face lit up as he chuckled. “Yes, the oddest things,” he said.

An awkward silence filled the room.

“Well --” he began, “I have to get going. But thank you for your patronage.”

“Thank you for your help,” Molly stammered.

“If you need any help in moving other things, or just help in general -- not that you’d need much help, you seem like a capable, smart woman who doesn’t need any help, but you know, just in case,” he reddened, stopped talking and took a deep breath before spitting out the remaining part, “Please don’t hesitate to call!”

And with that, he fled Molly’s apartment.

_It’s just as well,_ Molly thought as she headed to the kitchen to unpack her things. _It wouldn’t have worked anyways. You’ve just come off a bad relationship and he’s a pilot. Probably has a girl in every city._


	2. Chapter 2

In Martin’s defense, he was telling the truth. Carolyn’s twisted sense of humor resulted in an early morning schedule for their departure the next day and he knew he needed a good night’s rest for the flight so he’d be on the same mental level as Douglas and with enough patience to deal with Arthur’s inanities.

Besides, he told himself, it’s not like he stood a chance with her. Her living room alone could’ve held his little bed-sit and then there was that hulking tom whose face looked like it was smashed in with a shovel kept giving him the evil eye.

“Don’t mind Toby,” Molly had chirped as the beast growled in its carrier. “He’s just a bit put off from having to sit in his carrier. Normally he’s just my sweet boy.”

Small comfort really, Martin thought as the mad animal yowled and howled the entire ride. On occasion a paw slashed out of the container, taking hunks of Martin’s trousers (and flesh) with it as it swooped back into the cage.

And she worked in a morgue. She dealt with dead people, Martin thought to himself as he tossed and turned in bed. There definitely had to be something odd with her. No one he knew got close to dead people voluntarily.

But (and there it was again, that dammed but), she was so sweet to him, inviting him for dinner, which probably would have been better than the beans and toast he had. She even offered the first aid kit to dress the gouges that hell beast took out of his thighs.

If he wanted to be cocky, Martin could have sworn that she had checked him out. He could feel her eyes on him, but when he turned to look at her, she was busying herself with moving boxes to the proper rooms, a slight smile playing on her lips.

Not that he minded. Even with the grit, tattered sweats and messy ponytail, she was really quite fetching, he thought. Douglas would have dismissed her as mousy, but Martin thought she was cute. There was something so warm and sweet about her that he seriously regretted not accepting her invitation to dinner.

I should have gone to dinner with her, he thought as he stared blearily at the clock, which indicated that it was what-the-hell-are-you-doing-still-awake-o’clock. At least then I’d be well fed and not miserable. Well, until I had to leave her. Maybe it’s better this way.


	3. Chapter 3

She didn’t think she’d see him again. After all, the job was finished and there wasn’t a reason for him to contact her again. Besides, he was (supposedly) an airline captain. They were the busy, dashing sort who were probably fully engaged in seducing stewardesses. Molly saw the movie  _Catch Me if You Can_  and that gave her a good idea of what to expect with a pilot.  
  
  
 _Don’t think about him, don’t think about him_ , she kept telling herself, like a mantra, as the days passed and she unpacked her things and settled into her new flat, which was starting to feel like home.  
  
  
 _Don’t think about him, don’t think about him_  she told herself as she considered calling him to have him help her move something heavy. Like maybe a case of soup or a box of books. She was staring at his business card, drumming it on her countertop, fingers poised over her phone before she put it down.  
  
  
Approximately a week of this occurred before Molly’s mind finally let go of the possibility of their paths crossing again. Of course that’s when the fates had to toy with her.  
  
  
It had been a bad day at work. Sherlock was snappy about not getting his lab results, two coworkers were ill with a mysterious bug and, to top it all off, the report she was working on all day was eaten in a computer crash. Unfortunately, Molly couldn’t recover any of the work and had to start fresh.  
  
  
As she reached the lobby, the last thing Molly wanted was to interact with people. At that moment, all she wanted was a glass of wine and some time alone with sweet, sweet silence.  
  
  
Mixed amongst the usual bills and post was a package that looked like a gorilla stomped on it, then proceeded to repackage it with duct tape postmarked from Shanghai. It was thoroughly odd, since she wasn’t expecting anything from anyone.  
  
  
Molly took the package, along with the other post, and then headed up to her flat. Part of her worried about the contents -- after all Jim was still out there and terrorizing others. But then she noticed the return address and the name:  
  
  
 _Martin Crieff_.  
  
  
Upon entrance to her flat, Molly ripped the package open to find a watch with Chairman Mao merrily waving to indicate the seconds and a lighter with the Chairman’s happy chubby face on it. The lighter burned with a tall blue flame that had a threatening  _whoosh_  sound to it and both the watch and the lighter played a merry version of  _Red Easter_.  
  
  
But the sweeter thing was the note -- carefully and precisely hand-written on hotel stationary -- that accompanied the souvenirs:  
  
  
 _Saw this while in Shanghai. Thought of you and our conversation. I hope you are well and that you enjoy this. If you need anything, please keep me in mind.  
  
  
Martin Crieff._  
  
  
Clutching the letter in her hands, Molly read and re-read it, making sure that it was real. It didn’t matter that Sherlock was an utter prat to her, that her workload had tripled in one day or her computer crashed. Everything now felt like sunshine and lollipops.  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
The worst part of having no friends is there’s no one you can talk to when you’re feeling the sting of rejection. There’s no one to have a pint with, to talk about the ills of the world and eventually toddle home tipsy to wake up to a hangover. No, you have to suck up the fact that you’ve been rejected and suffer in silence.  
  
  
That was Martin’s thoughts in the days following his return from the last MJN jaunt. He hadn’t heard from Molly regarding the package he had sent her -- despite sending it via what he believed was a reputable overnight carrier. True it cost more than the presents themselves, but he wanted to make sure Molly got them.  
  
  
It was a fit of bravado, he admitted to himself. He wasn’t sure if it would pay off, but one never knows, unless one tries, as Douglas once spouted.  
  
  
And now, the silence was definitely speaking louder than anything else, he mused. Perhaps he should’ve gotten something else for her -- something with a bit more style and panache. Like one of those designer things from Nanjing Road. But it was the way her eyes lit up when she remembered the watch and the lighter that made it seem like a brilliant idea.  
  
  
Slumped on his futon, working through another flight simulation, Martin sighed, bemoaning his luck. If it was raining pound coins, inevitably, he’d be the only one with an umbrella, he thought to himself.  
  
  
Then his mobile chirped. He paused the game and picked it up, curiosity piqued. The number that flashed was unfamiliar -- it wasn’t Carolyn or Douglas, nor was it family members.  
  
  
“Hello?” he asked, befuddlement coloring his greeting.  
  
  
“Erm. Hello --” the feminine voice started. “It’s Molly, Molly Hooper. Is Martin available?”  
  
  
“Yes,” he replied cautiously. Martin could feel his stomach clench slightly and a bit of cold sweat started. He could imagine the next words  _I don’t know what you were thinking, but I’m not interested in you in that manner --_.  
  
  
“I wanted to let you know I received your gift,” she began.  
  
  
“And --” he stammered, bracing for the worst.  _I’m getting married next week_ , he could imagine her saying.  
  
  
“And it was very sweet.”  
  
  
 _He’s Prince Harry._  
  
  
“I was wondering if there was a way I could thank you for it.”  
  
  
 _We’re so happy and would you like to come to the wedding?_  
  
  
“Perhaps we could meet for coffee sometime, or dinner, since you’re back in town?”  
  
  
Martin blinked. This conversation wasn’t going the way he anticipated. “Dinner?” he sat up a bit more.  
  
  
“Yes,” he could hear the uncertainty in her voice. “Unless you’re busy --”  
  
  
“No, not at all. Dinner would be nice,” he interrupted, cursing the use of the word  _nice_ , which was too small of a word, but _fan-fucking-tastic_  seemed a bit vulgar.  
  
  
There was a relieved giggle on the other end of the line. “Wonderful,” she said. “Yes, wonderful. When would you like to meet?”  
  
  
 _Be cool, be cool_ , he thought to himself, before blurting out. “Tomorrow night?” like an overeager schoolboy.  
  
  
Another giggle, this time warmer and sweeter. “Yes, that would be good,” was the reply.  
  
  
Arrangements were made to meet and a restaurant was chosen. By the end of the conversation, both of them sounded flustered and giggly, like two teenagers. When Martin hung up the phone, he felt like he could’ve taken on the world, before the realization that what was coming next was an infinite variety of ways for things to go pear-shaped settled in his head like a portent of doom.


	4. Chapter 4

“What did you want to be when you grew up?” Brown eyes focused in on Martin as the innocent question was dropped from Molly’s lips.  
  
They were at a curry house, enjoying a bit of Indian food. Amazingly, the conversation (after a few fits and starts) was flowing somewhat comfortably. Molly looked absolutely stunning in a simple blouse and flowery print skirt, hair flowing down the back.   
  
It would’ve been work appropriate except for the fact that the top two buttons were undone. Martin was trying so hard to be a gentleman, but it was difficult for his eyes not to be drawn down to pale flesh between the chocolate brown fabric. Not to mention the necklace’s pendant -- a gold heart with a typeset “M” in the middle in the midst of some sparkly charms -- was like a set of runway lights, drawing his eyes to the vee of her cleavage.   
  
As a result, much of the running commentary in Martin’s mind was along the lines of the following:  
  
 _No! Don’t ogle there. Look up at her face. It’s a lovely face, with such a pretty mouth. I wonder what it’d be like to kiss that mouth. Oh dear lord, stop staring at her mouth. Look somewhere else. NOT THERE! Stop staring at the necklace, no matter how much it sparkles and the color of the sparkly bits remind you of the runway lights in Monaco. It’s just going to draw your eye down there and she’ll think you’re a pig.  
  
But she looks so lovely and I wonder what her breasts look like. Not that I’ve seen breasts in awhile, but I suspect hers are quite nice. I mean, they’re not too big, so it’s too much of a handful like trying to juggle a cantaloupe. I have no idea why Arthur suggested that while we were in Lisbon.   
  
Stop staring! She’s going to think that you’re a pig and you’re not. Well, you must be a pig, given how much you’re thinking about her breasts. You pig. Yes. I am a pig._  
  
“Pardon?” he asked, brought back to reality by her voice.  
  
A curious smile passed over Molly’s face -- had she read his thoughts? He could feel a hot flush spread across his face as he prayed she wasn’t a mind reader. “When you were little, what did you want to be when you grew up?”  
  
He didn’t want to say the first thing that popped into his head --  _an aeroplane_  -- because that sounded absolutely stupid. So he stammered.  
  
“It’s silly really --” he began.  
  
“So’s mine,” she said with a slight smile. “If you want, I’ll go first.” Her face reddened slightly. “I wanted to be a Playboy bunny waitress.”  
  
The image of Molly, clad in that ubiquitous satin bodysuit that left little to the imagination, white cuffs and bunny ears caused him to inhale his curry down the wrong pipe as all the blood rushed from his brains to the other portions of his body. After a few hacking coughs and a sip of his beer, he was able to let out a nervous laugh.  
  
“Really?” he coughed.  
  
She nodded, a certain knowing look in her eyes. “Well, that or a scientist.”  
  
“I don’t think they would have approved of you wearing bunny ears to work,” he said.  
  
“Yes, but it was so cute, those outfits,” she replied, before ripping a piece of naan and sopping up some sauce with it. “Go on then, it’s your turn.”  
  
“You’ll laugh.”  
  
Her grin widened. “I just told you I wanted to be a rabbit,” she said warmly, “Go on.”  
  
“An aeroplane,” he spat out, waiting for her to say something about how silly or foolish he was.  
  
Instead, the smile became warmer. “That’s not that silly,” she replied. “It makes perfect sense -- I had a friend who wanted to be a sports car after watching Transformers. He’s now in marketing. At least you’re still doing what you wanted to do.”  
  
“Well that’s also silly too,” he replied with a slight chuckle. “I mean, you can’t be a robot.”  
  
Molly’s face split into a wide grin as her giggle joined his chuckle.  
  
Feeling like he won something, the conversation continued. Despite his fears about morbid and gruesome discussion about dead people, Molly talked about her family, university and other random bits. Martin talked about flying and travel. It was probably the most enjoyable time they both had in a very long while. No, scratch that -- it was the most enjoyable time they had in years.  
  
By the time they reached her door, everything felt like shaken-up soda. He enjoyed himself, and she too, and there was the delightful tingle as their fingers brushed up against each other. But there was the dread of parting and possibly cocking everything up all to hell and ending up in the undesirable friend zone.  
  
It also didn’t help that Molly’s neighbor was staring at the two of them intently -- like a no-necked version of her father after Martin delivered her home after curfew.  
  
“Well --” he began, glancing over at the man, who was supposedly examining his mail and newspaper in the lobby.  
  
“Well --” she smiled slightly. “Don’t worry about Perry. He’s nice enough.”  
  
“That could mean that he’ll be perfectly polite after he rips my arms off for making an untoward move with you,” Martin laughed nervously.  
  
Molly moved in closer, glancing up at him. “Like what kind of untoward move?” her voice dropped slightly, but there was that bright sparkle in her eye that gave him courage.  
  
“Well, if I put my arms around you,” he began, long limbs sliding around her.  
  
Molly glanced over at the neighbor, who was watching surreptitiously while pretending to check his mail. “He seems to be just watching. No movement or danger”  
  
“There’s also me telling you I had a lovely night,” he continued, moving his face closer to hers. “And then asking if I can kiss you.”  
  
Molly bit her lip and wiggled for a moment. “Perry seems to have become bored and is now reading the paper,” she whispered, looking up at him. “I think you could kiss me now.”  
  
Well, when someone says you can kiss them, one doesn’t go “Are you sure?” Unless you’re Martin Crieff.  
  
But before he could form those words, she stood on her tiptoes and lightly brushed her lips against his.  
  
It was like putting his hands on an electric fence. Martin let out a soft whimper as Molly’s hands snaked under his coat and wrapped them around his waist. Her kiss clearly conveyed interest, as well as the question of whether he felt the same.  
  
She pulled away, uncertainty in her eyes and her lips formed in a small frown.  
  
“I’m sorry --” she began, her body beginning to shy away from him. “I didn’t mean to be so forwa--”  
  
Before she could finish her last word, Martin lunged. They bumped noses for a moment and Molly let out a squeak in surprise. The momentum of their bodies colliding resulted in Martin tripping over his feet, colliding into Molly and pressing her up against the door rather ungracefully. Her head fell back with a  _thunk_  against the door and she pulled away, gasping in surprise and a bit of pain.  
  
“I’m sorry --” he began, moving his fingers up to massage her head.  
  
“It’s all right,” she said with a silly grin before pulling his head down to hers.   
  
Their noses bumped again, but he adjusted his head and she twisted hers just so and then everything fell into place beautifully. It was addictive -- the first kiss created the desire to taste the other just a little bit more. Then a little more. Then the question was raised as to what kind of interesting noises they’d make if one’s lower lip was nibbled on in a certain manner, which then ignited curiosity regarding what  _other_  noises they’d make.  
  
What seemed like an instant (but probably was more like a few minutes) passed before the two of them heard a solicitous tap on the door. Opening his eyes, Martin’s gaze fell on the suspicious stare of Perry the paternal neighbor.  
  
Nothing could have killed the sense of romance quicker. Molly giggled as she moved away from the door and it was pushed open.  
  
“You all right Molls?” Perry asked. Up close, the man was even more intimidating, looking like a former RAF who spent most of his time bending bars with his hands. The expression he had indicated that he didn’t cotton to public shows of affection.  
  
Molly giggled. “Yes Perry,” she said. “This is Martin.”   
  
Perry eyed up Martin suspiciously, giving him a long stink-eye, before harrumphing. “You two should either get inside or say goodbye,” he grumbled before closing the door. “It’s just scandalous what you’re doing.”  
  
Molly studied Martin. His eyes were bright and intense, lips shiny and slightly swollen from the kiss and his hair was disheveled. She didn’t doubt for a second that she looked as rumpled or that his body was zinging with the same energy she was feeling.   
  
“Should we take his advice then?” Molly asked, while rummaging for her keys.  
  
Martin’s heart felt like it was being hammered with an ice pick. Of course she wouldn’t want him to come up. It was too early -- after all it was just one date. Hopefully when she came to her senses and realized that he was such a terrible prospect she’d tell him the truth, instead of saying she was being transferred to Bolivia for work. Or dying of some sort of obscure and highly contagious disease that sounded like a hairball being hacked up.  
  
“I guess we should,” he asked slowly, peeling his body away from hers and preparing for the long, lonely drive home. Martin was all set to leave, when he felt her hand reach out and squeeze his.  
  
He turned to see her chewing on her bottom lip, as she stared at him intently.  
  
Normally she wouldn’t have said the next thing. Normally she was a proper girl and who told her dates good night and then waited for a phone call that never came, or if it came, it was filled with half-hearted excuses. Instead, she was as shocked as anyone when she opened her mouth and uttered the following statement:  
  
“Why don’t you come inside?”  
  
He blinked, then noticed the warm smile on her face and how she held the door open, inviting him in. This time Martin was speechless, his mind a complete blank from surprise that she would invite him up in the first place. The only thing he could do was follow behind her like a little docile lamb.


	5. Chapter 5

_Seventeen men went to mow,_

  
_Went to mow a meadow,  
Seventeen men and their dog,   
Went to mow a meadow_

Normally Arthur singing in the cabin as he puttered about, preparing for the flight was an irritant to Martin. He needed to concentrate on the flight plan (never mind the fact that it was just a routine trip to Chicago -- the entire city could have moved three miles east into Lake Michigan and the only way to tell was the plan and maps) as well as do the safety check. But today? Martin couldn’t help singing along.

_Eighteen men went to mow,  
Went to mow a meadow;  
Eighteen men and their --_

“Platypus!” Arthur exclaimed.

Martin stopped for a second, confused. “What sound does a platypus make?” he asked.

Arthur made a snoring sound with his lips closed. If a turkey could have growled, that’s what it would have sounded like. It was disturbing the gleeful glint in his eye as he made the noise. Most twenty-nine-year-old men didn’t get such happiness from making mouth noises like that. But then again, they weren’t Arthur.

Martin nodded. “Very well,” and continued singing. “Eighteen men and their platypus --”

Arthur made his snorting noise.

“Went to mow the meeeeaaaadddddoooooowwww!” The two men finished as Douglas sauntered onto the plane and took his place next to Martin.

“Sir seems to be in a good mood this morning,” Douglas noted dryly.

Martin snapped the flight plan closed and grinned. “If you must know Douglas, I had a date last night and it went wonderfully.” 

“Really?” One eyebrow rose carefully on Douglas’ face. “Congratulations. Who is the lucky girl?”

Did he say  _lucky_  sarcastically? Martin wasn’t sure, but chose to ignore it. After all, it had been a splendid date.

“She’s someone I met while doing my other job,” Martin said. “I helped her move into her flat a few weeks ago.”

“Ah yes, the girl you got those tchotchkes for in Shanghai,” Douglas nodded. “So she responded favorably to your little gift?”

“You might say that,” Martin grinned, remembering everything.

“Really?” there was only the merest wisp of surprise in Douglas’ voice.

“Really?” Arthur exclaimed, but that was to be expected. Arthur tended to sound surprised at everything, even news that the sun had set for the night.

“Really?” Caroline’s voice crackled through the intercom.

Martin reddened. Bragging to Douglas would be one thing, but everyone listening in was something entirely different. At least with Douglas, it would feel like a minor win, whereas with Carolyn and Arthur, it started to verge on the realm of gossip.

“Well,” Martin stammered. “We went out for some curry and beers and she’s just lovely.” He could feel his neck get hot at the memory of Molly and her laugh and smile. “She’s just very nice and smart. Just a lovely, lovely woman.”

“Lovely,” Douglas echoed. There was a certain tone to his voice that rankled Martin. It sounded like he didn’t quite believe what happened.

“Yes Douglas. She’s lovely. Smart, funny and sweet,” Martin replied peevishly. Maybe it was the fact that he felt like Douglas was trying to burst his bubble, but Martin felt that he had to continue with the following line, instead of leaving things well enough alone. “She even invited me up afterwards.”

“Really?” Now Douglas definitely sounded surprised. 

“Really?” Arthur squeaked.

“Oh my,” even over the intercom, it was clear that she was suppressing a giggle. “Do not say more. I’m coming up there and I need to hear this. Martin’s finally caught a lucky break!”

He was over his head and Martin knew it. They’d want every salacious detail about his date. He was a wounded gazelle and unless he offered up the details, they’d circle around him like a group of starving hyenas.

“It’s not really much --” he began, just as Carolyn came barreling through the door. 

“Not much?” Douglas looked absolutely smug. “This is the first date I’ve heard about since --” he made a face as if he was thinking for a long while. “Well, since you started here.”

“I have gone on plenty of dates,” he replied, defenses now on red alert.

Carolyn snorted, then said, “So you were telling us about this date --” 

“Not much else to tell,” Martin could feel himself backpedaling. “A gentleman never kisses and tells.”

“Which means that not much happened,” Douglas surmised. “Let me guess -- you began talking about which movie was better -- Top Gun or The Aviator --”

“We did,” Martin snapped. “And she is in disagreement.”

“Ah, so she prefers The Aviator,” Carolyn cut in. “Not as many planes, but overall a better movie. Not bad taste with that girl. Although the volleyball scene in Top Gun --” a faint lascivious smile danced on her lips.

Arthur reddened. “Mum,” he muttered.

“Anyways, she did invite me up for some tea,” Martin continued.

“And --” Douglas waved his hand impatiently.

“We were sitting on the couch talking --” 

“And --” Carolyn’s grin was practically wolfish.

“I leaned in to kiss her --”

Arthur’s face bloomed into the brightest red. “Go on Skip --”

Martin sighed. It was time to tell the truth. “And her cat attacked me.”

The three colleagues groaned. 

“That hell beast,” Martin began to rant. “That thing she calls her ‘widdle kitten’ leaps up and latches himself on my back and attempts to climb up my head. Thankfully she had a first aid kit to help with the hunks of skin that thing took out of me.”

A disappointed silence filled the cockpit. 

“It never fails Martin,” Carolyn said after a long silence. “You’re the most unlucky man I’ve ever met. In any case, our passengers are almost here and it’s time to get ready to go. Come Arthur.” With that, she swept out of the cockpit, her son bouncing in tow.

The flight to Chicago was uneventful. No one moved the city three miles to the east. 

“You know something,” Douglas said thoughtfully as the two enjoyed a cup of coffee after dinner. “I just realized that you said it was a successful date. How does getting clawed in the back by a mad feral tom mean it’s a successful date?”

Martin grinned as the memory of Molly’s taste -- a bit of mango lassi and something undefinable -- along with the scent of lilacs flickered in his memory. “Well, I did get to kiss her and she did say she wanted to see me again,” he said somewhat smugly. 

“You sure it wasn’t out of pity because of how her cat attempted to murder you?”

Martin nodded. “Even if it was,” he said thoughtfully, “a date’s a date. You take your victories where you can get them.”

Douglas snorted, a smirk flashing across his face, “Hope always springs eternal.”

~~~

“Hello?” The tinny sound of Molly’s voice, thousands of kilometers away sounded warm and sleepy. 

“Did I wake you?” Martin cursed himself, staring at the clock. Even though it was approximately 10:30 in the evening in Chicago, he realized too late that it was about 4:30 in the morning in London. “It’s Martin, you know? The one who you went out with the other day?”

“No, no,” she yawned, attempting to hide the lie. “Well,” there was a slight laugh. “Yes I was, but I’m just happy to hear from you. How’s your back?”

Martin smiled at the sound of her voice. He could picture her laying in bed, phone pressed to her ear, her body warm and Toby curled up against her. “It’s fine,” he replied, remembering how she tended to his back after the cat’s attack. “Well, thanks to you.”

“You’re welcome. I’m sorry about Toby. I have no idea what got into him,” she yawned, then added, “Why did you call? Are you all right?”

“Well, er --” he stammered. “I know we said we were going out as soon as I got back, but I guess --”

“Yes?” 

“I wanted to let you know I’ll be back in London the day after tomorrow,” he said. “I know I’m going to be exhausted, but given the time we’re returning I’m going to need a diversion to keep me awake and get my internal clock back to normal.” It was the stupidest excuse to call, Martin thought to himself, but what else was he going to say?  _Because I missed you and wanted to hear your voice before going to bed. That I’m absolutely besotted after one date._  That was too sappy.

“Really?” her tone got warmer. “You’re lucky I’m off that day. You could come to my place and we’d just go out from there.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” Molly giggled. “So how’s Chicago?”

“Big. The airport is just a bloody nightmare. We’re holed up in this little hotel,” Martin sighed, silently bemoaning the fact that his sheets had that odd musty smell and were slightly damp, as well as the fact that Douglas was snoring in the bed next to him and Arthur was talking in his sleep about flying to Jupiter from his spot on the floor. “We’re flying out tomorrow, and I know you need to your rest --”

Another tinny giggle emitted from the receiver. “It’s fine,” she said. “I should get up early and go exercise or do work or something.”

He laughed, knowing she was lying. “You’re too kind.”

“I’d love to see Chicago,” Molly said wistfully. “The only place in America I’ve been was Boston. I envy you.”

“It’s not much really,” Martin stammered. “I mean, for me it’s land the plane, get to the hotel, go to bed, get up and go back to the airport. The only thing that changes is the language.”

“Do you ever get time off? To explore and see things? Maybe even get a discount to fly?”

He could see where the line of the conversation was heading and it was going to end badly, Martin thought.

“Well, um --” he began. “MJN really isn’t that successful.”

“Really?” 

Martin closed his eyes, bracing for the worst. It was something he had dealt with before -- the truth would come out, he’d feel ashamed about his hobby and the fact that he didn’t even get paid for his job, she would make some excuse not to see him again or give the dreaded “It’s not you, it’s me” speech. 

“I work as a mover,” he said slowly, voice quavering. “That’s how I make my living. I don’t make any money from this. I don’t get a salary.”

“Why not?” it might have been the tinny connection, but Molly didn’t sound the least bit annoyed or angry. Just curious.

Martin took a deep breath and explained everything -- the job interview in which Carolyn bamboozled him to take nothing for the title of captain, the constant hustle the company did to stay ahead of creditors, the fact that he worked as a mover when home, but this was his hobby. 

“I’m sorry if I deceived you,” he finally stammered into the phone. “But yes, I’m not rich or successful. And this isn’t really a glamorous job. I just really, really love flying.”

There was a long silence after he finished his story, which made him feel nauseated. He could hear her thoughts, her weighing the options and whether or not he was worth her time. Martin closed his eyes, willing himself not to cry, but to be glad that at least it wasn’t face to face. One time that happened, the girl threw her coffee at him and stormed out of the cafe.

“It’s OK,” he heard after what seemed like an eternity. Her voice was still warm and kind. “But now I’m wondering something --”

Martin let out a morbid laugh. “What?” 

“What if I offered to volunteer as a stewardess? Would your boss let me fly for free or a discount?” Her tone was absolutely innocent. “I mean, it’d be a barter of services.”

Martin once scoffed at the notion of air hostesses being easy, calling it a male sexist fantasy. But the image of Molly, dressed in a smart uniform from the sixties, complete with miniskirt, pillbox hat and long legs leaning over him purring “Coffee, tea or me?” nearly made him drop his phone.

She couldn’t be real, he thought to himself. No woman is this sweet. But she couldn’t be as sweet as he initially thought, he realized. Molly had just given him an incendiary image, burned into his brain and there was nothing he could do about it. Not with Douglas and Arthur sleeping in the same room. 

“Um --” he squeaked, battling his hormones for control. “I’d have to consult with her, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she was amiable to that.”

“Well, I’m not really good with customer service,” she laughed. “I mean, I do work with dead people for a reason.”

“You can’t do any worse than Arthur,” he chuckled.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Molly wasn’t the type of girl to have sex on the first date. Her friends always teased her, describing her as a Disney princess. She’d scoff at them, saying she just didn’t want someone to get the wrong impression of her, thinking she was only interested in sex.  
  
Besides, she’d admit she was a romantic -- getting to know someone was important for igniting her desires. If she just wanted a quick fuck, why would she wear heels out on a date or sit through dull superficial discussion with someone interested in talking about his bank portfolio?  
  
These were things that she thought she knew about herself. That she could rely on. So how on earth did she end up naked with Martin in her kitchen?  
  
Normally she wouldn’t have done it, but it started with him arriving dressed in his captain’s suit as he arrived at her flat. Which did look good on him and conveyed a sense of authority that made darker urges sit up and take notice. How long had it been since she scratched that particular itch? Too long, according to the more libidinous portion of her brain.  
  
Being polite, she offered to make a cup of tea and allow him a moment to rest and catch his breath after the long trip. He thanked her, stammering slightly as he removed his cap, tucking it under his arm. Molly put the kettle on the stove, some pleasantries were exchanges and the next thing she knew, she was pressed up against him, her bottom against the counter, grabbing his tie and pulling him to her, her mouth opening under his. She wasn’t even sure who kissed who first, but it didn’t matter. She would never be able to remember who removed what clothing.  
  
It hadn’t been perfect. Toby had to be locked in the bathroom with a box treats to keep from climbing up Martin like a cat tree. The kettle whistled, startling the both of them and Molly had to pull away to turn the stove off and fetch a condom, which threw their rhythm off a bit. There was a lot of the following:  
  
 _Ow! My hair!_  
  
Perfect. Wait. A bit to the left. No, my other left. Yes! Right there.  
  
Is that good? Was that a good sign? I mean I can’t tell between a moan of pain and a moan of --- ooooh  
  
Am I hurting you?  
  
No, you're not, but you're caught on my bra. Here let me --  
  
Your breasts. They're --  
  
Too small I know.  
  
No,  no. I like them. Not that they're too small, or too large or too -- they're perfect.  
  
Really? You think so?  
  
Yeah.  
  
That affirmative word, mixed with the look of clear desire in Martin's eyes made Molly lose all insecurities. She pulled Martin closer to her and, like the kissing, things fell into place. Soon they both were wobbly and boneless, sitting on the kitchen floor, slumped up against the cabinets, holding hands and grinning like mad fools. Definitely an experience worth repeating, Molly thought.  
  
There was a long silence.  
  
“Well --” Molly began.  
  
“Well --” Martin echoed.  
  
“That was nice,” she glanced over at him. His hair was sticking up and out in odd directions. For some reason he was still dressed -- his shirt was unbuttoned, the tie still around his neck and pants undone. His jacket was still on and his hat knocked off. “I mean -- I hope you --” she inwardly cursed her awkwardness.  
  
“No, no,” he interrupted. “It was very nice. Better than nice. Wonderful in fact --” He put his arm around her and she snuggled into the crook of his arm. “I’m just a little gobsmacked.”  
  
Molly giggled. “Then we must’ve done it right then,” she said, inhaling his scent. He smelled clean, like a mix of soap and deodorant, but there was also the underlying heavy scent of sex. She glanced up at him, unable to read his expression and for a moment, she worried if she had moved too fast.  
  
He chuckled.  
  
The awkward silence returned. Molly wondered if he would leave. She hadn’t had much planned for the afternoon -- maybe catch a film or just wander around London. Even though she thought about their first date and how badly she wanted to kiss him again, she didn’t expect this to happen today.  
  
“So what’s next?” he asked after a moment. “I mean, we still have the rest of the day. Unless you don’t want to do anything, in which case I’ll find some sort of way to amuse myself.”  
  
Molly pulled back and stared at him. His expression was sincere and hopeful, which bolstered her courage. Reaching past him, she picked up his captain’s hat, which had fallen near him. She could hear him inhale sharply as her naked body slid across his lap. She grabbed the hat, then returned to her previous position before donning it with a rakish tilt.  
  
“Well,” she grinned, before biting her lower lip, “We could just stay in.”  
  
Martin’s eyes widened in surprise and his smile matched hers. “I love that idea,” he replied, before kissing her again.  
  
~~~  
  
Everything was so effortless, both Molly and Martin quickly realized. And after all the slings and arrows that they both were dealt in their daily life, the simplicity of their relationship was welcome in their lives.  
  
Mobile bills skyrocketed as the number of international calls increased. If someone glanced at their bills, they’d notice the calls were placed whenever Martin was on the road and usually before he went to bed.  
  
Given that Martin didn’t have much money, none of their dates were especially extravagant, but that didn’t bother either of them. Molly constantly told Martin that she didn’t need anything posh and that she didn't mind paying for him. But that never stopped him from sending her the odd souvenir from his travels or saving up for a night out. True he had to eat ramen for days afterwards, but the way her eyes lit up and the appreciation she showed him later made it all worthwhile.  
  
It was easy to make her eyes light up, which delighted him. Small things like bringing her a cup of coffee in bed in the morning, an absentminded foot rub while watching the telly or even serving breakfast on her off days, when they had time to be lazy and stay in bed for hours never failed to make her smile. He wasn’t much of a cook, but he could scramble an egg, which was how she liked them and that’s all that mattered.  
  
For Molly, she was thrilled to find someone who was so uncomplicated. Despite his neuroses and insecurities, it was refreshing to be around someone who plainly wore his emotions and thoughts. It was delightful to be around someone who wanted her. Not access to a body or access to a certain consulting detective, but her. A man who found her to be valuable and interesting as a person. Who didn’t mind that her version of a good night was a bit of Glee and pizza. Who didn’t laugh when she danced around the kitchen in a t-shirt and undies, singing along to Beyonce, but instead could be drawn in to join her after a bit of coaxing.  
  
Not just anyone, but a pilot. Who was driven, funny and generous to a fault. It was evident not just in the flowers and the occasional night out or two, but also in the fact that he worked for MJN as basically a volunteer. Despite his pessimistic outlook, Martin did have a good soul that hoped for the best.  
  
Both of them wondered how long such bliss could last. They both could easily recall when a good relationship began to go sour. Both of them knew this was the honeymoon phase. Things couldn’t last like this forever.  
  
While Molly resolved to enjoy this time as much as possible and trust that they’d be able to weather any storm, Martin didn’t quite have the same outlook. Instead, he spent his quiet moments alone waiting with a growing sense of dread for the moment when everything would come crashing down.  
  
Would it end spectacularly, like that time when he was mid thrust with a former flame and she looked up and him and said “I think I’m a lesbian”? Or would she suddenly stop taking his calls and months later he’d find her out with another man? So many ways this could end badly, he realized.  
  
He voiced this once to Douglas, who looked at Martin as if he had lost his mind.  
  
“You finally have a girlfriend who you adore, she adores you and you’re wondering how it will end?” he asked, disbelief tinging his voice. “Just enjoy it now. Que sera sera as the song goes.”  
  
To which, Arthur began singing the song throughout the flight. However he didn’t know all the words, so it was just “Que sera sera” over and over again, mixed with the random Spanish phrases he knew. Martin would never be able to hear that song again without adding the line, “!Evito! Que mi cabeza se ha quedado atascado en la puerta del ascensor.”  
  
That was an agonizing flight home from Morocco. But also enlightening. Martin decided to take Douglas’ advice. The future wasn’t his to see, so he might as well enjoy the moment now. It was the first lucky break he had caught in years, so he might as well enjoy it as much as possible.  
  
Even Molly noticed the change in Martin’s attitude.  
  
“You seem different,” she said after one afternoon where they attempted to watch the A-Team movie, but got distracted by the physics (“You can’t fly a tank! Even with a parachute and using the guns to steer! The aerodynamics and weight distribution are all wrong!” Martin recalled shouting at the screen). Molly got distracted by the way his hands were tracing pattens on her arms, which led to them both getting distracted by something that was decidedly not the movie.  
  
"I'm just happy," Martin replied, before sprinkling kisses along the inside of her wrist. "And I've finally decided to enjoy it instead of worrying about it."  
  
Molly's face brightened and she snuggled in closer to him with a contented sigh as they watched the heroes on the screen attempt three card Monte with shipping containers.  
  
It was a perfect afternoon and at that moment, Martin realized he finally had everything he could ever want -- he had his dream job and had the dream girl. True he didn’t have money, but with Molly, it didn’t matter. For once, life seemed pretty good.  
  
Of course, that’s when things would go to hell.   
[  
](http://cutebutpsycho99.livejournal.com/24728.html)


	7. Chapter 7

They had been dating for about three months and Martin wanted to surprise Molly with a nice evening. He begged for favors from Douglas, and in turn, Martin promised first crack at the cheese tray, his desserts after meals and allowing Douglas to handle takeoffs and landings for three months.   
  
“Is she really worth all this?” Douglas asked, eyebrow arched. “Giving up the Camembert and the cheesecake? Allowing the first officer to take the lead role in takeoffs and landings?”   
  
Martin nodded without hesitation. “She’s the best thing to ever happen to me.”   
  
“You mean --” he shot back. “Our Captain is in --”  
  
“Don’t make me say it to you before I’ve had a chance to tell her,” Martin interrupted, his cheeks growing hot. “You know that’s not sporting at all. Now will you do this or not?”  
  
Douglas’ normally sardonic expression softened, before he agreed to Martin’s terms. “Don’t worry,” he said. “You and your lady friend will be having a lovely evening. I have a few friends who owe me favors.”  
  
Thanks to Douglas, Martin had reservations to one of the nicer restaurants in London and two tickets to the Glee tour. Martin didn’t dare ask how Douglas pulled it off -- no doubt it was part of his tangled smuggling operation. It’s amazing how many things start with a cheese sandwich, he mused.  
  
Martin didn’t tell Molly about it, wanting to surprise her. On the day of the date, he just told Molly to keep her evening free and that he would pick her up at work and that she should dress for date. Screwing up his courage, he willed himself to head to the morgue of St. Barts. He wasn’t sure how suave he could be if there was a dead person in front of him. Quietly he offered a prayer to a benevolent spirit that he wouldn’t faint or throw up if there was a body in her office.  
  
The office was bright, clean and sterile. It reminded Martin of the science labs he had seen in secondary school. Thankfully there was no corpse on the table. Molly was standing next to a tall, lanky fellow who was peering into a microscope. But once she saw him, her eyes lit up and a happy smile spread across her face.  
  
“Martin!” she squealed, bouncing over to him and kissing him on the cheek. “How was Barcelona?”  
  
“The usual,” he replied, “Are you almost ready?”  
  
Molly nodded. “In a bit. Sherlock’s been requiring assistance so I’ve been aiding him in that.” She turned around. “You needing anything else Sherlock?” she called. “I’m hoping to leave in a few minutes.”  
  
The man standing over the microscope stood and gave an imperious stare and Martin could feel a cold rush come over him. There was no other way to explain it other than cliches really, because they’re something familiar to cling to when suddenly the world has gone sideways.  
  
It was his face staring back at him -- well, not exactly his face. Instead of false bravado, this man had a haughty confidence that Martin knew wasn’t in his features. He seemed taller, but Martin wasn’t sure if it was presence or actual height. Obviously he came from money, because no one wears posh suits like what he had, unless they were rich. His hair was a mop of dark curls, making him look like some sort of romantic hero out of a Bronte novel.  
  
What was more unsettling was the way the other man was sizing him up. Martin couldn’t tell exactly what was going through the other man’s mind, but it was clear he didn’t seem as weirded out as Martin.  
  
“I’m impressed,” his double said, shattering the silence. “You’ve managed to find someone who looks like me, but isn’t as clever. Probably good that -- given how the last clever one ended.”  
  
Martin gawped. Molly sighed.  
  
“That’s Sherlock,” she said, resting her hand on his arm. “Don’t mind him.”  
  
He couldn’t help himself. In the back of his mind, there was a portion of his brain saying,  _Do not engage. You will not win and the loss isn’t worth it._  Sadly, that portion of his brain was not in charge of his mouth. If it was, he certainly wouldn’t have said:  
  
“What do you mean not as clever?” Martin huffed. “I can be plenty clever.”  
  
The man arched on eyebrow impassively. “Really?” he asked. “An airline captain for a second-rate charter company who makes his living moving boxes? How so?”  
  
Martin glanced over at Molly. “You told him,” he said, feeling an arrow of betrayal -- for what reason exactly, he couldn’t pinpoint.  
  
Molly turned a bright pink. “I did no --”  
  
“She didn’t,” Sherlock said, overrunning Molly’s protestations. “Your business card and uniform told me everything.”  
  
Martin continued to gape as Sherlock continued. “Well, you have four stripes on your sleeve which denotes airline captain, but you’re much too young to be a captain -- most of them are in their late forties or fifties. Not to mention the fact that your uniform is worn at the elbows and some of the threads on the embroidery are coming loose. This indicates that whoever you work for doesn’t have money for replacement uniforms. Hence a second-rate airline. However that doesn’t work, because your uniform doesn’t have pins indicating what airline you work for. Therefore it must be a charter service of some type.   
  
“Also, do you realize that apparently you’ve got the hat of a South American military dictator and not an airline captain’s cap?  
  
“As for the moving boxes for pay -- that was child’s work. Molly mentioned that she was moving to a new flat and had hired a mover. I spotted your business card on her desk after the move -- no doubt she was debating about calling you to move something heavy like a box of academic books or a case of soup -- when she introduced you, I just put the name together with the business card.”  
  
Martin felt his stomach drop. Part of him wanted to say “Brilliant,” while the other part of him hated his doppelganger for being better than him.  
  
“I asked for the standard captain’s cap,” he mumbled.  
  
Molly sighed. “He does this to everyone Martin,” she said quietly, squeezing his hand. “You were right on the books and soup Sherlock.”  
  
Sherlock smirked.  
  
“I’m still clever,” Martin snapped, wanting to say something, anything, to wipe that smirk off of his double’s face.  
  
There was a snort from Molly. His head snapped towards her and he dropped her hand. “What?” he asked, panic beginning to overtake him. “You don’t think I’m clever? What about Johannesburg and letting the air out of the tires so we could get the truck to the field?”  
  
Molly’s eyes were wide. “I do think you’re clever,” she said, a slight tone of panic in her voice. “I think you’re plenty clever, but this is like the all-star version of clever. Beyond word games clever --” he could see her furiously backpedaling over her last statement.  
  
“Her last boyfriend, well I should say pseudo-boyfriend since he was using her to get to me, pretended he was a closeted gay man, kept me busy for forty-eight hours solving puzzles and if I didn’t solve them, innocent people would die,” Sherlock interrupted. “Not to mention, the mastermind behind several interesting crimes over several years. Now that was clever. But I still maintain that he’s a closeted gay man.”  
  
There was a long, uncomfortable silence as Martin processed the information spewed by Sherlock. Suddenly he felt quite small and the urge to flee took over.  
  
“Right then,” he said, adjusting his hat and willing his voice not to crack. “Since it appears that you fancy the clever posh type, I’ll be going.”  
  
Before anything else could be said, Martin turned and fled the lab.  
  
Molly bolted after him, but cowardice seemed grant him the power of super speed. Despite her best efforts, she couldn’t find him.  _Stupid girl_ , she berated herself as she trudged back to the lab to get her things.  _You just mucked up the best thing that ever happened to you._  
  
Sherlock watched impassively as Molly gathered her purse, willing herself not to cry in front of him. As she was heading out the door, she heard him say, “Bit not good?”  
  
Leaning against the doorjamb, Molly let out a shuddering sigh and wiped a tear from her eye. “Yeah,” she said, before drawing the last of her strength to leave.


	8. Chapter 8

“So the bear holds up his paws and goes ‘I’m a bear!’” Douglas said, as the entire group at the Hose and Hydrant burst out into laughter.  
  
The First Officer of MJN grinned as he sipped his apple juice. Yes, the past three months had been relatively blissful. Thanks to Martin’s lady friend, the captain was more relaxed, easier to get along with and overall more pleasant than -- well, since ever. True, he was still  _Martin_ , but it was remarkable how much easier it was to get along with him when he was getting laid. Even Carolyn and Arthur had noted this, saying that whoever she was, this girl was a saint among saints.  
  
“Brilliant Douglas!” Arthur exclaimed, before a thoughtful expression flitted over his face. “Only one question --”  
  
“Yes Arthur?” Douglas drawled, bracing himself for something inane.  
  
“What if it was something smaller? Say a cat,” Arthur asked.  
  
“Then I’d imagine it’d be a small pause,” Douglas replied.  
  
“Oh right!” Arthur’s face brightened. “Because a cat has --”  
  
“Small paws,” Douglas finished, noting that Arthur didn’t look like he was finished with his train of thought. Instead, it looked like the train was about to run smack into Douglas and possibly take part of his sanity with him.  
  
 _Now to get Carolyn paired off_ , Douglas thought.  _But who’s daft enough for that job?_  
  
Before Arthur could continue his line of logic, the door of the crew break room burst open and Martin stalked into the room. Immediately the crew made noises about having to return to their families and bailed, leaving only Douglas and Arthur behind.  
  
“Oh dear,” Douglas deadpanned, quelling the feeling of panic rising up in him. “I thought you’d be at the concert by now, listening to the dulcet tones of Yankee teenagers mutilating pop songs.”  
  
Before he could say more, Douglas got a look at Martin -- his eyes were red-rimmed and raw in appearance. The last time he had seen something like this was when a particularly rude passenger called Martin “a boy playing at his job and to come back when his testicles dropped.”  
  
“Shut it Douglas,” Martin said, without much venom. “No, we didn’t go to the concert. Nor dinner.”  
  
“Trouble in paradise?” Douglas noticed Arthur hovering in the background, uncertain, but wanting to comfort Martin. The amount of arm flapping Arthur was doing reminded Douglas of a nervous mother hen on illegal stimulants.  
  
There was a shuddering sigh as Martin attempted to retain his composure. “You could say that,” he said, throwing his hat on the table and sprawling in a chair. “I think we’re done.”  
  
“Oh Skip,” Arthur sighed, finally settling down next to Martin and patting him on the back. “It can’t be as bad as you think.”  
  
Martin shook his head. “It is,” he choked back a sob. “I think she’s in love with someone else.”  
  
Despite the urge to question whether Martin was making a molehill into Mount Everest, Douglas bit his tongue. This required a delicate touch to bring Martin back to the land of the rational, he realized. And unfortunately, Arthur's touch was as delicate as a rampaging rhinoceros.   
  
Rummaging behind the makeshift bar, Douglas pulled out a bottle of ice tea and a can of pineapple juice and some tumbler glasses. Plonking them on the table, he poured a healthy-sized glass of what appeared to be tea for Martin and a glass of pineapple juice for Arthur, before seating himself with his glass of juice.  
  
“Did you open up an illegal bar on the airfield again?” Martin asked from his hands.  
  
“Sir must have known about it,” Douglas replied, “Why else would Sir come here?”  
  
There was a humorless laugh. “You’re right about that,” Martin replied, before grabbing the drink and downing it in a healthy swallow. “The Talisker?” he asked, surprise tinging his voice.  
  
“Well, this is a serious situation,” Douglas retorted as he settled himself back in his chair. “I figured we’d need only the best. You were speaking nothing but the highest praises for her before.  
  
“Now,” he said somewhat seriously, “What happened?”  
  
~~~  
  
 _Hi, you’ve reached Captain Martin Crieff, and you’ve reached my phone. I can’t answer it right now, well, that’s obvious since you’re listening to my voice mail, but if you’d leave a message, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Which should be soon, unless I’m flying, in which case it might be a bit because of safety concerns, but I will get back to you. So. Um. Yeah. Wait that’s rub --_  
  
Molly listened as the voice mail beeped, cutting off Martin’s message. “Martin,” she sighed, “It’s Molly. I’m really sorry about what happened at work and I really want to talk to you,” her voice began to quaver. “Please call me. I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you. Please call me. Please?”  
  
Hanging up the phone, she chucked it on the coffee table, where it landed in a pile of spent tissues, and wiped her eyes again. She had been trying to call him for the past two hours, with no luck.  
  
 _Stupid, stupid girl_ , she thought to herself as the tears began to flow again. She hadn’t meant to hurt him, but it was kind of the truth. Jim and Sherlock were in a league of clever that no one else could compete with. Like David Beckham, pre-moving-to-Los-Angeles level of clever. Besides, it didn’t matter. Molly didn’t want clever. She wanted Martin.  
  
If only she could talk to him, then she could say that, she thought ruefully, as she dabbed her eyes with another tissue. She wanted to say it to him.   
  
 _Are you willing to just wait for him to call you back? Isn’t he worth going after?_  An angry voice whispered in her mind.  _Are you just going to be little meek Molly and wait for him? You know that never worked before. Go after him. What would Marianne Dashwood do?  
  
Fall in love with the wrong man and then get deathly ill from standing in the rain too long,_ the sensible portion of her brain answered.  
  
 _Fine then. What about Elinor?  
  
Even worse. Just swallow her feelings and wait._  
  
Molly sniffled. Her usual go-tos weren’t working. Maybe it was time to follow the steps of someone who wasn’t an Austen heroine.  
  
 _What would Sherlock do?  
  
Sit back with indifference?  
  
Not like that. Like with Jim you twit,_ her mind snapped.  _What would he do with Jim?  
  
Chase him down.  
  
Right. So that’s what you do. Be like Sherlock. Chase down Martin and hash this out._  
  
Molly sat up. Right then, she thought. If he was going to avoid her, she was going to show up at his doorstep and not leave until they talked.   
  
But there was one problem -- she couldn’t remember where he lived.  
  
She had been there once and just briefly -- Martin seemed embarrassed by the whole thing and Molly didn’t want to press the issue. The only thing Molly could remember was a small garret, neatly kept.  
  
“It’s not much,” he had said, eyes on the ground.   
  
“It’s fine,” Molly had replied, sensing his discomfort. Grabbing his hand, she squeezed it. “Shall we go out?”  
  
He had nodded gratefully as they both headed out the door.   
  
Sadly, that had been so long ago that she couldn’t remember how to get there.  
  
“Dammit,” Molly muttered to herself.  
  
Molly massaged her temples, wracking her brain for ideas. She began calling up all the information she knew about Martin. Molly remembered that he lived near Fitton. It had to be near a university, because she recalled him mentioning that his housemates were students from the agricultural university.   
  
 _Come on Molly_ , she could hear Sherlock berating her.  _I could’ve figured this out in seconds. Think you silly woman._  
  
“I’m not Sherlock,” she muttered under her breath.  
  
 _You can come close. Now concentrate._  Molly could’ve sworn that her inner voice was getting that haughty tone.  
  
She closed her eyes and tried to remember every detail of the room and the house. Martin’s room was neat, with a futon set to one side of the room. There was a desk under a small window and a coat rack holding his uniform and a small battered dresser. The house was nondescript, but she could almost make out the sign in front of it.  
  
 _Parkview Terrrace_  
  
Grabbing her laptop, Molly began searching for that name in Fitton.   
  
Ten minutes later, Molly had an address, directions and was out the door, heading for her car.   
  
 _Note to self: Be more like Sherlock_  she thought as she started the car.  _Minus the wankery bits._


	9. Chapter 9

Douglas was impressed. He rarely drank with Martin, given that the man was too repressed to even contemplate looking at a bottle of alcohol whilst on duty. There was that one time with Goddard, but that was the only time. Since then, Martin never touched a drop of the stuff, muttering about the potential for trouble.  
  
But tonight? Martin was off duty -- hell, Douglas wouldn’t have let him near the controls after all the whiskey consumed. Martin alone had demolished a good portion of the bottle of the Talisker as Douglas and Arthur gently drew the tale out of Martin. Well, as gently as Douglas could. Arthur was firing off the questions faster than a four year old on a sugar binge. Which also summed up Arthur perfectly.  
  
“What do you mean your twin?” Arthur’s expression was rapt. “Like a good twin or evil twin? You’ve got to be the good twin, cos’ you’re clean shaven. Did he have a goatee? Evil twins always have a goatee.”  
  
“Better twin,” Martin slurred as he waved around the tumbler of whiskey. “He looks like me -- if I was richer, smarter, dressed better, had better hair, ate better and and apparently was brilliantly observant of all things and about as confident as as Douglas.”  
  
“So in other words, nothing like you,” Douglas muttered.  
  
“Gosh,” Arthur exclaimed. “That would be --”  
  
“Not. Brilliant,” Martin groaned, taking a swig of his drink. “In the span of five minutes, he figured out everything about me and what’s worse is that Molly didn’t even defend me. She said I wasn’t clever.”  
  
“Well, by the sound of it, you’re not in comparison to that chap,” Douglas rumbled. “But none of us would be.”  
  
He was worried. Pre-relationship Martin was a bucket of despair and anal-retentiveness. Relationship Martin was more tolerable and -- dare Douglas say it -- likable. He was terrified what a post-breakup Martin would be like.   
  
Not that he would show his terror. That would not be seemly.  
  
“He’s Sherlock Holmes,” Martin groaned.   
  
Immediately Arthur began vibrating with excitement -- it was like when he heard they were flying Hester Macauley to Cremona. “You mean that chap who’s always solving cases?” Arthur asked excitedly. “I’ve read about him. They say he can figure out a person’s background from how they tie their shoes. He’s quite --”  
  
“Brilliant, I know,” Martin muttered, taking another hearty swig. “I mean, I never really had a chance in the first place, but this?” he slurred. “This is like putting GERTI up against the new Chinese stealth fighter jets.”  
  
“She’s got to see something special in you,” Douglas made a half-hearted attempt to comfort Martin, despite the fact that he could see the man’s point. “After all, it’s been three months and both of you seemed crazy about each other.”  
  
“That’s probably because she never saw us standing next to each other,” Martin snapped. “She didn’t get a good comparison until tonight and now she sees that I’m pathetic. Why did she choose me? Why? When she could have him?”  
  
“Why not ask her about it?” Douglas replied.  
  
“I can’t ask her about that!” Martin’s voice was getting to near hysterical pitch. Douglas recognized the signs -- Martin was drunk and his method of logic was not only going off the rails, but possibly off a cliff and into the ocean.  
  
“Why not?” Arthur piped up. “It’s not like you have anything to lose.”  
  
Douglas watched as Martin’s mouth snapped shut as he considered the question. It was an amazingly sound question, Douglas realized. No matter what, it’d get the truth out there and erase any doubts Martin had and let him get on with his life.   
  
Douglas blinked. It wasn’t like Arthur to drop words of wisdom like this. The last line about wisdom was happiness and hot baths, which Douglas refused to admit out loud that there was truth to the man’s words. Sometimes the smallest things brought the biggest happiness. Sometimes he wasn’t sure if Arthur was their own version of Buddha.  
  
The thoughtful, if drunken, silence was shattered by Arthur.  
  
“Say Skip, since we were talking about those Chinese stealth jets, I started wondering -- what do people in China call their good plates?”   
  
Then he’d say something like that and Douglas would realize even a blind squirrel finds a nut sometimes.  
  
~~~  
  
According to Google Maps, it was approximately two hours to get from Molly’s flat to Fitton. Molly made it there in an hour and fifteen minutes. It was exactly as she remembered -- a plain red-brick house with a small sign in the front indicating that this was Parkview Terrace.   
  
Gathering up her courage, Molly marched up to the door and rang the bell.  
  
A gangly young man with a pair of black hipster glasses opened the door. Clutched in one hand was a beer. Behind him a stick of a lad with a mop of brown hair that was covered his eyes.  
  
“Does Martin Crieff live here?” Molly asked.  
  
“Marty the flyboy?” Glasses asked. “Yeah, but he’s not here right now. Why?”  
  
 _He’s gone. Left. Doesn’t want to see you._  Molly’s more cowardly thoughts piped up.  _You may as well just go home. It’s over._  
  
Channeling her inner Sherlock, Molly drew herself up a bit taller. “I’m his girlfriend,” her heart fluttered at that statement. “I wanted to surprise him with a visit.”  
  
Technically that was the truth, but Molly didn’t want to tell them everything. They didn’t need to know about the fight.   
  
The other boy hooted, before taking a swig of his beer. “Marty’s got a girlfriend?” he said, a smile spreading across his face. “It’s about fucking time. What’s your name?”  
  
“Molly.”  
  
For a moment the two boys stared. She wasn’t sure if they were about to proposition her or say something crass.   
  
The Mop pulled Glasses aside and they quietly conferred for a moment. Molly swore if they made an advance on her, she would hit them with a handbag and attempt to use whatever remnants of karate she remembered from secondary school.  
  
“So what’s your intentions with our flyboy?” Glasses had a wicked grin on his face.  
  
Molly bit her lip, thinking it over. “I need to see him,” she said, the words tumbling out of her mouth before she could think them over. “I need to apologize for being an idiot. Can I just please go in and wait for him?”  
  
“Yeah,” Glasses said, making way for Molly. “He’s got a room up in the attic.”  
  
Molly headed up the stairs to Martin’s room, thankful that she didn’t encounter any more students. She wasn’t sure how much more courage she had in reserve to deal with nosy uni students and, on top of that, confront Martin.  
  
Standing before his door, she knocked it once, but there was no answer.   
  
 _In for a penny, in for a pound_ , she heard Sherlock purr in her ear as she opened the door and switched on the light.  
  
The room was exactly as she remembered. It was lit by one of those hideous track lighting messes that seemed to light everything but the spot you needed. There was a futon on the floor, where the roof angled. At the other end of the room was a small desk with a laptop resting on it. A coat rack was covered with neatly ironed shirts and there was a small dresser right by the door, with a mirror hanging over it.   
  
On the dresser was a set of photos of Molly and Martin -- it had been taken in a photo booth when they were roaming around London one day. Molly smiled as she remembered yanking him into the booth. The pictures were silly really -- Molly was making goofy faces as Martin attempted to look serious and professional, but by the fourth photo, her fingers were forcing his mouth into a wide grin.  
  
Everything was as neat as a pin. Books about airplanes and flight regulations were organized alphabetically on a small shelf, his toiletries were in a small basket, neatly organized. His shirts were crisply ironed and even the small hot plate was sparkling clean.   
  
None of this surprised Molly. Martin, from what she knew, was always fastidious about his surroundings and his grooming. He might not be the richest man in the world, but he refused to look slovenly.   
  
A cold sensation settled in the pit of her stomach as Molly choked back the urge to cry and made herself comfortable on the futon. “Right then,” she said to herself. “This is the final stand.”


	10. Chapter 10

“I’m dreadfully sorry about your car Douglas,” Martin could feel the heat reach his cheeks in embarrassment. “But thank you so much for the ride home. I couldn’t have made it without your help.”

  
Douglas’ hands gripped the steering wheel. “Not a problem,” he replied. “Like I said, I like it when people owe me colossal favors. And you, my friend, owe me several colossal favors now.”

“I’m sorry I got sick in your car.”

“Luckily the nice thing about leather upholstery is that it cleans up easily,” Douglas said calmly. 

“How about the cupholder? Or the glove compartment box?” Martin opened the door, a certain amount of shame creeping up his spine.

“That, not so much,” Douglas sighed. Martin could tell he was upset but how calm his tone was. “But some people owe me favors, so it should be tidied up quickly.”

Martin nodded, opening the car door. Before he left, he felt Douglas’ hefty hand pat him on the shoulder. “Remember the words of MJN’s own Forrest Gump -- ‘What have you got to lose?’”

When he was drunk, it seemed like a brilliant plant to just confront Molly, but now, with the majority of the Talisker out of his system and sobriety staring him the face, that question was scarier than encountering Eyjafjallajökull (in both spelling and eruption). 

Martin offered a faint smile. “You know that’s what I’m afraid of,” he said, before exiting the car.

He was sore and his stomach gurgled and ached from the retching. At least he didn’t have to see Molly, Martin thankfully thought. Perhaps after a good night’s sleep, some water and time for his hangover to recede, he’d be able to gather his thoughts and words together as well as his courage.

Martin entered the house silently, hoping that his housemates (whose names were Dave and Alec -- but Martin privately dubbed them Glasses and Smartarse) would continue drinking beer and watching Bargain Hunt and leave him in peace.

“Oi! Marty,” Smartarse said, calling back to Martin. “You’re girlfriend’s upstairs. Been waiting for you for the past two hours.”

Suddenly it felt like the altitude dropped. Martin could feel his stomach rising, attempting to reject whatever was left in his stomach, but he swallowed it down. There was no way in hell he was going to be sick in front of those two. It would not be seemly.

“Really?” he croaked out.

“Yeah,” Glasses replied. “She’s up waiting in your room.” Glasses glanced over from his chair, taking in Martin’s disheveled appearance. “You OK mate?”

Martin shook his head. “It’s been a bad day.”

Glasses nodded in a rare moment of empathy for him. “I’d say get yourself cleaned up. There’s a spare toothbrush in the bathroom -- my sister forgot it the last time she visited.”

“Thank you,” Martin rasped. “Very kind of you Alec.”

“Dave,” Glasses replied, a wry smile on his face.

“Dave,” Martin softly replied, before heading to the bathroom.  _Christ_ , he thought.  _Could this day get any worse?_

He dragged himself into the bathroom to brush his teeth and get as much of the bile taste out of his mouth as possible. Thankfully, he managed not to get any vomit on his shirt and jacket, so at least he wouldn’t look that pathetic when presenting his case to Molly. 

Martin then sat in the kitchen, armed with a tall glass of water and sipped it, listening to the last remnants of Bargain Hunt as he prepared his argument. Or at least attempted to, but his mental faculties failed him. Blaming it on the Talisker, Sherlock and the way his life had become topsy-turvy, he decided to head upstairs to meet his fate.

“Right,” he muttered under his breath, drawing up on his last reserves of courage. “Let’s get on with this.”

With that, he opened the door.

It was clear that she had just sprung to attention, because he heard her curse, then saw her rubbing her head. Her hands strayed to her coat as she began nervously fiddling with a button. 

“Martin,” she stammered.

“Molly,” he said, drawing in a deep breath.

She continued to fiddle with the button of her coat. “Look,” she said quickly, before he could interrupt, “I just came to apologize. I’m very sorry for hurting you and I never meant to hurt you and I totally understand if you never want to see me again, because what I said was pretty awful, but I’d love it if you gave me another chance.

“I know you think I’d fancy Sherlock, but I don’t -- I mean, I used to, but not anymore -- because he’s an arse. Tonight was a prime example of his arse-ness. I don’t care if you’re not as rich, well-dressed or as clever as him. I just want you.” The last few sentences were spit out in a single breath, before her voice trailed off into a little squeak.

Martin’s jaw dropped. For the life of he, he couldn’t remember the last time someone just flat-out apologized to him. It blew whatever thought he had composed out of his head.

Unfortunately, Molly translated that the worst way. “OK,” she said, standing taller, her voice quavering. “Well, I’ll be going then yeah?” she attempted to gather up the remnants of her dignity and began to head out the door.

Martin’s hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. Her hands were cold and clammy and he could feel her pulse under the skin hammering away. It matched his perfectly. She was as terrified as he was, and that was an odd comfort to know he wasn’t alone. Suddenly he knew what to say.

“Don’t,” he said softly. “I’ve got something to say.” It was like the first time he flew a plane -- that strange, breathless feeling, where everything could go perfectly, or it could go pear-shaped, but no matter what, the wheels are off the ground and the stomach is somewhere in the bowels.

“You’re right,” he began. “I might not be that clever, but you know what? Those men in your past? That posh bloke? The not-gay-maybe-gay-using-you-to-get-to-posh-bloke boyfriend? They were morons. Utter berks and idiots.”

It was strange -- those words coming out of Martin’s mouth. They weren’t things he’d normally say, but they felt true and like the first time he flew, Martin put the throttle on and kept going. If he was going to crash and burn, it was going to be on his own damn terms.

“When I met you I couldn’t stop thinking about you and wanting to be with you. You are the sexiest, smartest, sweetest woman I’ve ever met,” Martin wasn’t sure who was talking anymore. It sounded like a more confident version of him -- the one who knew exactly what to do with GERTI on a bright and beautiful day. “I can’t believe they would use you in the way that they did.” 

“Martin --” Molly began, a red blush blooming across her cheeks, but he continued, not letting her interrupt, fearful that everything would end with a slap across his face. At least now he had control for the moment and she hadn’t shaken off his grasp.

“I am still amazed that you decide to grace me with your presence and allow me to worship every centimeter of your delectable body,” he could feel his ears getting hot and part of him wished he could stop talking, but apparently his mouth decided otherwise. “How the hell did I get so lucky as to be able to kiss that perfect mouth? They were wankers. Idiots. Morons. Stupider than Arthur. They don’t deserve you. At least I’m smart enough to see that you’re fan-fucking-tastic.”

He paused for a breath, watching for her reaction. Her eyes were wide, mouth parted and a blush spread over her cheeks and down her neck. Knowing his luck, if things were going to go down the tubes, now would be the time, part of him thought.

Instead, Molly’s free hand grabbed the back of his head and pulled him down for a searing, possessive kiss. For a brief, conscious moment, Martin was  _really_  glad he decided to brush his teeth before coming upstairs. That thought was obliterated as his mouth opened automatically under hers and her tongue slid into his mouth, hot and demanding. 

Her hands pulled away from him and he could feel her pulling her coat off, before they moved to shuck off his jacket. Once he was free of that, she began yanking at his shirt, while she pushed him back onto his futon. Thankfully he had enough mental acuity to duck slightly to avoid smacking his head on one of the eaves.

She fell on top of him, knocking the breath out of him for a moment. “Silly boy,” she whispered in his ear, before nipping on a lobe, “You never had anything to worry about.”

He blinked. What? Nothing to worry about? Since when?

Martin grabbed her around the waist and rolled over so he was on top. Pulling back, he stared down at her. Her hair was tousled and her eyes were dark and bright. Concentrating for a moment, he forced some blood upwards to his brain so he could gather enough wits to say, “What?”

Molly giggled as her fingers skimmed over his buttons, deftly releasing them from their environs. “You never had anything to worry about,” she repeated, tweaking one nipple through his undershirt and watching him arch his back and let out a soft gasp of surprise. “You’re bloody fantastic.” 

“How so?” Disbelief tinged his voice slightly as he sat up, pulling his shirt off, then his undershirt.

Molly let out a soft hum of appreciation, before her hands strayed downward undoing his trousers and pushing them down. “You’re the most sincere person I’ve ever met and the kindest,” she said, pulling him out and stroking him. 

Martin could fill his entire train of thought derailing as the sensation of soft hands stroking something other than his ego. Then she sat up and did something with her tongue and teeth to his nipple that shorted out his entire thought process filling it only with thoughts of  _Want. Now_. 

“You’re the best man I’ve met in London,” she said, watching him unbutton her blouse.

Satisfied for the moment, Martin’s face split into a goofy grin as he bent forward to kiss her and they both stopped talking for some time.

“Best man in all of London?” he asked later, as they were sprawled across his futon. He was feeling a little braver now thanks to the fact that Molly came not once, but twice. He also heard applause from his housemates downstairs as well as a hooting cheer of “Bravo!” when she wailed out his name.

She nodded. 

“Who the devil were you dating?”

And that’s when Molly told him everything. About all the disastrous dating attempts. Not just Sherlock and Jim, but the men who promised to call her, but never did. The ones who seemed to like her, but then disappeared into the night or slept with her former best friends, who then invited her to their wedding and credited her for introducing them (“I can’t believe I agreed to stand up for her wedding,” Molly sardonically chuckled, when she told Martin that story). 

Then there were the ones who seemed perfectly nice, but then, almost insidiously, made her feel bad about Toby or her job or the fact that she wanted things a certain way. About how exhausting it was to go out and approach other people and how she was fed up with dating after Jim.

“I said never again,” she said, finishing her tale. Her head was on his chest, arms wrapped possessively around him. “It was awful. I mean, I got used to the idea of being used and the possibility of it -- but Jim? That was it. Done. Finished.” She pushed herself up on her elbow and studied him. “Then I met you. And things just kind of fit.”

He remained silent, studying her. Her expression was wistful -- a bit sad, but there was a slight smile tugging at her lips. He found himself identifying with her and her stories. Admittedly he hadn’t had an ex use him to get Douglas’ attention by kidnapping Arthur and Carolyn, but given his luck, it was only a matter of time, had he not met Molly. 

“Dating is always exhausting,” he said after a moment. “I mean, it’s like a job interview and I did so fantastically at those.” The last phrase might have been a bit sarcastic.

“Except that there’s the possibility of sex at the end,” she teased.

“You haven’t seen the job interviews I had to deal with,” Martin replied.

“I’m terrified to ask,” she giggled, before leaning in to kiss him. “I’d say you had a successful interview awhile ago,” she said after she pulled away. “Hell, you got the job.”

He blinked, not sure where she was going. “Come again?”

She bit her lip and looked at him, a quiet, serious expression. “I love you.”

“Wait,” he said. “How long?”

Molly looked surprised and a bit concerned, which caused him to quickly spit out the following to prevent her from fleeing:

“I mean, I love you too, I’ve loved you since our first kiss, when it knocked me sideways. But let’s not get distracted here. How long have you known this? Why didn’t you say something sooner? Me? Why? What?” he continued stammering.

Molly giggled and moved to straddle him. “When you called from Chicago -- that told me everything,” she said, leaning forward and peppering his face with kisses. “I was scared to tell you because nothing is worse than saying ‘I love you’ and getting nothing back or a ‘Well, that’s nice.’ Yes you. 

“Because you’re sincere, kind, sweet and tolerate Toby who apparently is trying to murder you. Because you bring me coffee in bed in the morning,” she rubbed his nose with hers, before placing a quick kiss on it. “Because you call me at night when you’re away from me to say goodnight -- which tells me that you’re thinking of me. Because you bring me odd little things from your trips that makes me grin. Because your smile makes my toes curl and your kiss makes me weak. Because you know how I like my eggs. Because I do. And in case you need to hear it again,” she leaned forward and whispered it against his lips “I. Love. You.”

He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close and savored the feel of her body pressed up against him. For awhile, there was nothing on their minds other than covering each other with kisses, as well as a few gentle licks and nips.

“You realize,” he said, as she nibbled along his neck, “I was going to tell you I loved you tonight -- then things got kind of --”

“Hush,” Molly chuckled, sliding her tongue along his collarbone, enjoying the gasp from him. “You succeeded at your mission.”

“Yes, but I was thinking that I now owe Douglas three months of favors and we never did get to go see the Glee concert,” instantly Martin regretted those words coming out of his mouth.

“Wait,” Molly pulled back, her face serious. “We could’ve seen Glee? The Warblers, in concert? Darren Criss in London and not just on the telly?”

Martin gulped, waiting to get blamed for his foolish overreaction spoiling everything, but nodded. “You’re not mad are you? I was hoping to surprise you, but then things got cocked-up.”

There was a long silence as Molly thought. Martin knew how much she loved Glee. About as much as him, he suspected. If she could’ve run away with New Directions, he believed she’d probably do it in a heartbeat.

Then he felt her hand slide down his torso and her nails drag along his thighs. “Mr. Crieff,” her voice was a soft, dangerous purr, “You know I love Glee right? And how badly I wanted to see that concert?”

He nodded, then gulped. “I’m really sorry,” Martin tried valiantly not to moan that phrase out as her fingers did amazing things to him. It didn’t work.

“All I will say is this,” she said, a wicked gleam in her eye as she rolled over, pulling him on top of her. “You’ve done admirably tonight to make up for everything, but I suggest that you stop talking and put that mouth to better uses.”

A relieved chuckle escaped from him. He had defeated Puck and Mr. Schuester. She loved him more than Glee and that boggled his mind. “Yes ma’am,” he said, before obeying her command. 

“Oh and Martin?”

“Yes ma’am?” 

“Mmmm,” she sighed breathily, “I could get used to that. I like the way you say ‘ma’am.”

“I shall endeavor to say ma’am more often ma’am. But you were saying?”

“I just wanted to say that I’m so happy I found you.”

“Me too.”

~~~

And so, they lived happily ever after. 

Except for that one time when an MJN client flew everyone out to Vegas and Molly volunteered to be cabin crew for a vacation. That trip resulted in Molly and Martin getting married by Douglas accidentally-on-purpose. That was kind of awkward to explain to their families.

Then there was that one time when Douglas and Arthur lost Martin during the EAA Fly-in while Molly was pregnant with their first child. But he really wasn’t lost. Jim kidnapped him to try and get Sherlock’s attention. That’s when Martin learned what Molly meant by the “black hole of batshittery” she dealt with on a daily basis.

Then there was the other time Martin was very disappointed to find out his daughter wanted to be a racecar. Then she wanted to be a Formula One racecar driver instead of a pilot. Molly didn’t blink at that one. However, when said daughter said she wanted to become a consulting detective, she put her foot down.

And then there was the time Martin found out (much to his chagrin) that his son had fallen prey to one of Douglas’ daughter’s schemes. That ended with them eloping. Not that Molly minded.

But other than those things (which really weren’t that big of a deal when you were in as much love as those two) and an occasional quibble about Molly leaving her work clothing scattered around the house when she returned from work (The most creative thing was a bra hanging off the coffeepot), they lived happily ever after. And Molly still said that it was all Sherlock’s fault.  



End file.
